


Gossamer Bonds

by Solemini (SoleminiSanction)



Series: Father of Heroes [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Demigods, Alternate Universe - Percy Jackson Fusion, Arachnophobia, Batfamily Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Damian is new, Gen, Sibling Rivalry, Tim Drake is Robin, Weaving, and the older brothers are failing to deal, dad is out of town, kid heroes in peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 06:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16113146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoleminiSanction/pseuds/Solemini
Summary: Tim hates spiders. Most children of Athena do, and with good reason. Given his druthers, Tim would have been content to simply avoid the little monsters for the rest of his life.Too bad fate – and Damian – had other plans.Or, in which weaving is Serious Business.Set in my Percy Jackson/Camp Half-blood/Demigod AU.





	Gossamer Bonds

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of ideas for this AU and absolutely no energy for an epic ongoing series, so expect the various stories to bounce around the timeline a *lot*. Also, the ages between the kids have been slightly compressed for timeline and lore reasons, but the rough distribution for this adventure is: 
> 
> Damian - 10  
> Tim - 14  
> Cass - 16  
> Jason - 19  
> Dick - 21  
> Bruce - 46

Tim hates spiders. Most children of Athena do and with good reason; immortal grudges never die and Arachne’s is particularly bitter. But Tim’s fear came upon him early in life, long before he could have known the true threat. He could pinpoint the moment it found him. It was a memory that would haunt him his entire life. 

He’d been four years old, playing hide-and-go-seek in the Manor gardens with his siblings. Jason had been “It,” so Tim opted to crawl under Alfred’s prized rose bush, where his big brother wouldn’t be able to fit.

He didn’t see the egg sac until it was right over his head, a pulsing mass of sticky white the size of his father’s fist. Somewhere, in the part of his mind that understood things he shouldn’t yet, Tim realized that Alfred would have never allowed such an infestation to grow so large. It couldn’t be natural, but the subconscious warning came too late.

The sac burst, raining a thousand tiny spiders onto Tim’s head.

His memory went spotty after that. There was fear, which made him scream; and pain, which made him scream louder; and then Cass was dragging him out by the leg while Dick bellowed for Jason to get Dad. The awful, wriggling monsters with their horrid, sharp teeth got under Tim’s clothes and inside his ears and tangled all through his hair. They bit him, and every bite burned until he shrieked and writhed on the grass despite Dick and Cassandra’s attempts to pin him down.

Bruce came sprinting out of the house at full speed and rushed Tim inside for a bath, which drowned the awful things and washed clean the cuts he’d gotten from the bush. But no sooner was he dry than the fever set in, followed by shaking, chills and lethargy.

Tim had been sick from the venom for nearly a week. Sometimes, in the haze of his fever, he’d wake up to find Dad sitting beside his bed, muffling soft sobs into his hand. That was the worst part of all.

After that, Tim had – quite reasonably, he thought – sworn off all contact with spiders save their immediate extermination. Learning of Arachne and her grudge only heightened that resolve.

Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

 

* * *

 

 

A shriek echoed through the Bat Cave.

Later, Tim would deny it, but in the moment all present recognized the sound for what it was. Jason glanced up from lifting weights, Dick twisted away from his computer, and Damian paused in his kata to snigger under his breath.

Tim burst out of the storage lockers, his blazing face a perfect match for his red Robin tunic. He flung a crushed, sticky white lump onto the mats at Damian’s feet and shortly followed it up with his glove.

“Brazilian. Wandering. _Spiders_ ,” he wheezed, voice keened high and hysterical. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

While Jason whistled his appreciation of the rare curse, Damian only smirked. He ground the egg sac’s remains under his boot and didn’t even bother to hide his blatant lies. “I’ve no idea what you’re blathering about, _Drake_.”

Tim made a wordless, frustrated throat noise comparable to a dog toy being crushed in a compactor. Normally, he didn’t mind the fake surnames they’d given the public. It only made sense, as four adoptions over ten years were far easier to explain than four biological children without a single mother between them. But coming from _Damian_ – who had an (allegedly) mortal mother, refused to take on a false name, and arrogantly flaunted his public status as Bruce Wayne’s _only_ acknowledged offspring – it could only be an insult.

He ripped off his other glove and threw it in Damian’s face. The boy squawked, but before he could retort, Dick jogged over to break them up. He quirked his head at Tim, exaggerating his expression the way he always did behind the Nightwing mask.

“What happened?”

“The little demon,” Tim spat, jabbing a finger at Damian. “Put a nest of _venomous spider eggs_ in my utility belt! In the grapple line pocket! If they’d hatched, they’d have infected my entire suit!”

The very thought made his skin crawl, childhood scars burning with phantom pain. He scratched at the Robin gear’s seams, searching for any hint that even a single spider might have escaped.

“Where did you even get them? Importing the eggs is still animal trafficking, you menace!”

“Okay, _okay_.” Dick stepped between them, putting his hands on Tim’s shoulders. He rubbed them in soothing circles, trailing down Tim’s arms to the wrist and back up. “You’re okay, Timmy. No harm done. It was just a tasteless prank.”

Tim’s tension melted away, but his face remained flush, a mix of anger, embarrassment, frustration and fear threatening to force out tears. “They’re the most poisonous spider in the world, Dick. He’s still trying to kill me.”

It was hardly the first time. Damian, their father’s child by Talia al’Ghul, had barged their lives only a year ago. DNA proved him to be Bruce’s child, and his… _abilities_ …made it clear that he was some variety of not-entirely-mortal. As such, Bruce hadn’t been willing to send him back to the thrall of the ancient, unknowable League that his mother called family. Not even after he’d attacked Tim and later Jason, and then Tim _again_ in their own gods-damned home.

Damian wanted Robin. He’d demanded it from the moment he set foot in the cave, claimed it was his personal birthright. Never mind that it was Dick’s name, passed to Jason and then to Tim, who’d held the role for well over two years. Nor did it matter that _their_ father had finally, after last summer, acquiesced to giving Damian a rudimentary suit and letting him patrol under strict supervision. No, that wasn’t enough for the little brat. He was determined to pry Robin out of Tim’s cold, dead hands, and every day he found new ways to make that intent more clear.

Even now, Damian scoffed and barked a short word in the forgotten tongue of the League, a language older than Rome or Greece or even Egypt, from a culture long ago forgotten by mortals and gods alike. What little remained of the spider’s nest burned off his boot with a flicker of green flame.

“Anyone so pathetic as to be threatened by such insignificant creatures is hardly worthy to call themselves Grayson’s partner, let alone _my_ father’s.”

“Damian,” Dick warned, but the boy brushed him off with a dismissive shrug.

“I simply state truths, _brother_. In the true Batman’s absence, can we truly entrust this city’s protection to a child terrified of mere insects? If you had any sense you’d be taking me out instead, no this love-sick virgin’s passing fancy…”

The crack at his mother and his manner of birth was the final straw.

Tim tackled Damian to the mats, sending them tumbling over each other in a roaring, screaming, undisciplined cat-fight complete with scratching and at least one bite. Tim soon had Damian pinned on his back and was about to go for the face when impossibly strong arms seized him around the waist and lifted him bodily from the floor.

“Take it easy, babybird.” Jason growled in his ear, though Tim could just see that he was glaring knives at Damian. “The runt’s not worth it.”

Damian hissed and rose to a kneel like a cobra about to strike, but before he could Dick barked, “ _Stop_.”

His voice rippled with Charmspeak, which he almost never used on family, not on purpose. Damian shuddered, but did exactly as he’d been told, freezing in place. Tim shivered through the command and went limp in Jason’s hold. Thin tears of frustration streaked his burning face.

After a moment, Jason let go, setting Tim back on his feet. Tim rubbed his cheeks, cursing the tears and his own weakness and the useless feeling that overtook him now.

“You know what? Fine.” His voice shook as he ripped the cape off his neck. “If the brat wants to patrol that bad, let him. I’m staying in.”

“Tim…” Dick began, but Tim was already storming away, shedding Robin’s uniform in bits and pieces as he went.

 

* * *

 

 

The moment after he slammed his bedroom door, Tim flung himself onto the bed. He buried his head beneath a mound of pillows, pressed his face to the mattress, and screamed.

As a rule, he didn’t hate people. He didn’t think he’d ever hated anyone, except the monster who’d broken Jason. But in that moment, in his screams, he hated Talia al’Ghul. He hated her for taking advantage of his father, for forcing her spawn into their lives, and for encouraging him to ruin everything Tim had ever loved.

He poured every drop of that hatred into his screams and stopped only when the anger had burned down into a cinder. Then he rolled over onto his side and let himself cry.

He missed his sister like a severed limb and his father like a plucked-out eye. Cass could always make him feel better, even just by sitting with him in silence, and while Bruce could barely handle his own feelings, he’d at least give Tim the perspective to know if this storm was real or simply the result of teenage hormones.

But Cassandra was in Hong Kong, pursing her studies in the martial arts, and Batman would be off-planet with the Justice League for at least another week. Even Alfred had gone off on his yearly vacation, leaving the boys to patrol Gotham and Tim to sob himself dry.

He stayed under the pillows until there was nothing left, emerging hours after sunset when his brothers were sure to be off on patrol. Exhaustion had replaced his frustrations, but his mind was too well-trained and too wound up to sleep.

So, he did what he always did when he craved peace: he sank to his knees in the soft carpet and dragged his loom out from under the bed.

He’d picked up weaving during his first summer at Camp Half-blood, with the encouragement of his elder half-siblings in the Athena Cabin. Being the child of a god didn’t necessarily grant any particular skill in their crafts; yet, Tim took to the work like a natural. Its binary nature appealed to him – literally, since he knew automated weavers had been among the earliest of punch card computing. For him, weaving stripped the code of life to its core without the risk to innocents that so often pervaded his hacking.

His current project was a sash for his Amazonian friend – also, coincidentally, named Cassandra – to celebrate her latest victory over a chimera that had ravaged Washington D.C. It took him only a moment to remember the rhythm of shuttle and reed. The patterns he’d planned for the red and gold unfolded before his mind’s eye, and his hands set to work.

That was the other thing about weaving: it engaged and focused the part of his mind that kept him up most, the part that saw patterns. It was a natural instinct, but in Tim it had always been stronger than most – divinely so. It picked up on things even when his conscious mind wasn’t aware, which made him an excellent detective – the best in his family – but also made him anxious, especially when he couldn’t find the pattern his instincts knew to exist.

But in weaving, the patterns were under his control. They emerged as though pouring from a tap, his hands flying through the motions faster than humanly possible.

He might not be able to Charmspeak like Dick, or lift cars and command weapons like Jason, or melt into the shadows like Cass, or – gods forbid – tap into Damian’s weird magic. But he was a child of the divine nonetheless; a son of Athena, of his father, and of Gotham. Nothing could change that, not time and not demon spawn.

With that thought, the weight of the bad night finally lifted from his shoulders. He centered his mind, better than any meditation, and kept working long into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, Damian disappeared.

 

* * *

 

 

“Bullshit,” snarled Jason, his breath puffing white in the evening chill. “He has to be somewhere. Kids don’t just fucking vanish.”

Tim bit his tongue, grateful that Robin’s mask hid the way his eyes were unconsciously drawn to the white streak in Jason’s hair. As if _he_ had any room to complain about vanishing.

The three of them – Robin, Nightwing and Red Hood – were perched atop the First National Bank of Gotham, the last known location of “Agent D.” Damian had snuck out before sunset (in direct violation of the “Dad is out of town” ground rules) and led Oracle’s security camera trace on a merry path through the city before simply…well, vanishing. In a blink of static, without a trace.

His brothers had split up to cover every possible route on the way and found nothing, not so much as a hint. They’d scoured the city, checked all of his usual haunts, and chased down every rumor that so much as mentioned boys in black and white or hoods. And even though all their costumes had GPS trackers sewn in, Damian’s signal wasn’t getting picked up, no matter what network they searched.

Nightwing paced the roof’s edge like a tightrope, raking gloved hands through his hair fiercely enough to pull out long strands. The face visible around his mask had gone gaunt. Even with the lenses, Tim could imagine the fear that no doubt ruled his eyes.

“We never should have let him out of our sight,” he muttered, more to himself than to either of them. “Batman is going to kill us.”

“Oh right, because _that’s_ the most important thing here.”

“You know damn well that’s not what I—”

Tim winced, backing away to the opposite side of the roof. Fights between Jason and Dick were never quite as bad as the ones they both could start with their father, but when they were both hurting and scared – like they were now – it got vicious, fast. Tim couldn’t stop them. Not without finding Damian.

Despite the layers of thermal protection in his suit, he shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest, as if it that could smother the anxiety riling up there. In his mind, he started going over every rooftop he’d passed on the way here, every detail and speck of his memory, searching for what they’d missed. Jason was right: even with his magic, Damian couldn’t just evaporate. Which meant there had to be something, anything…

Wait. There, in the corner of his eye. Movement.

Robin turned – only his head, the way he’d been trained – and narrowed his eyes at the gargoyle perched on the building’s corner. For a second, he thought he might have imagined it, but…no, wait. There. Shimmering silver. A long, thin strand stretched taut from the statue’s ear, trembling in the evening breeze.

Spiderweb.

Tim flipped open his wrist computer. He pulled up the still images from Oracle’s hacked security cams, each paused at the moment Damian dashed through the scene in his long cape and white-gray-black jumpsuit. Now that he knew to look, Tim saw what his subconscious had: in each and every shot, there was a strand of web, stretched along the path of Damian’s run.

Was he following them?

Tim glanced up, just in time to see a long-legged black spider climb out of the gargoyle’s ear. The red hourglass on its lower abdomen was unmistakable, even in the gloom.

His heart seized. Gotham didn’t have black widows. They were much too far north-east.

The spider crawled along the web until it dangled well and truly away from the stone. Then it paused and… _waved?_ Or at least, wiggled one of its legs in the mockery of a wave, as though to be sure it had Tim’s attention. And then it kept crawling, scurrying down the too-long, too-strong thread towards the roof across the street.

Tim gulped. He could take a hint.

“Nightwing…”

“I don’t see you offering any suggestions!” Dick shouted, nearly nose-to-nose with Jason now and yelling loud enough to wake apartment tenants down the street. Neither he nor Jason seemed to have heard Tim at all.

“Hood! Nightwing!”

“Stay out of this, Robin,” Jason snapped, not even glancing Tim’s way before he launched into another angry, mean-spirited breakdown of Dick’s failings.

Tim groaned. The spider and its web might not be natural, but it was still, clearly, only a spider and only a web. The autumn wind was too strong, especially up here on the roof, for it to hold for very long. If he didn’t go now he’d risk losing their only lead.

He dug a bit of chalk from his utility belt and scribbled a sign onto the wall, six lines intersecting at the middle with a spiral radiating out. Hopefully, when his brothers stopped fighting, that would be enough to clue them in.

He lost sight of the spider almost instantly, but the webs led the way, single threads blowing in the wind and stretched across buildings. A few blocks from the bank, they descended to street level, a dozen separate threads coming together to disappear down a storm drain.

It was an obvious trap. Tim could fit down that hole if he squeezed, which meant that Damian would be able to do it too, but Dick and Jason were both too broad. The second he went down there, he’d be on his own, and he could guess who would be waiting.

But what else could he do? It could be Damian’s life on the line.

Steeling his nerve, Tim used the R shuriken from his tunic to dig the GPS tracker out of its seams. He left both on the sidewalk over the drain. Then he slid onto his back and dropped into the darkness, feet-first.

 

* * *

 

 

The fall was longer than it should have been, not enough to hurt but enough to startle a gasp from Tim as he dropped. He rolled when he hit the ground and popped up a moment later, staying crouched as he observed his surroundings.

The space he’d entered was much too big and much too dry to be a Gotham storm drain, though the floor was still wet and he could hear water rushing past the iron walls. Those walls, draped in curtains of crisp, sticky white, were curved like a pipe and barely touched by the sliver of orange streetlamp-light overhead.

A second light – brighter, flickering – illuminated the bend ahead. Tim rose, keeping his steps light and his bo at the ready as he darted around the curve.

About a hundred feet down, the tunnel opened into what might have once been a large cistern, though it was now impossibly huge; a multi-story cylinder fed by huge pipes, most of which were now sealed with web. Those same webs spanned the chamber’s width, supporting a circular wooden “floor” on which stood a blazing bronze brazier.

Its dancing firelight fell freely upon the many tapestries strung up among the webs; tapestries that were, without a doubt, the finest that Tim had ever seen. In one, he recognized his half-sister Annabeth, the Athena Cabin counselor, about to leap over the edge of a ship; from another leered the too-familiar, twisted green-white-purple face of the Joker, looking real enough that Tim could almost hear his laugh.

He wrenched his eyes away and up, into the mass of interwoven webs that blocked the chamber’s roof from view. Among them, suspended directly over the fire but far enough away to avoid the heat, hung a struggling figure bound in web from white boots to black mask.

“Damian!”

The boy’s head snapped in Tim’s direction, though it couldn’t move enough to see him. Tim took a running leap and planted his staff in the web to launch himself onto the platform, sliding just short of the brazier.

“Hang on,” he called up as he yanked his weapon free. “I’m going to get you—”

The steps came long before he saw her, segmented legs click-click _-click_ ing over muffled metal. The web trembled and Damian’s struggles renewed, snarling against his sticky gag. A black shadow appeared behind him, trailing human-like fingers over the exposed back of his neck.

Tim’s breath caught. He knew from the campfire stories what Arachne, Mother of Spiders, looked like now, but that knowledge in no way prepared him for reality.

She was massive, crawling through the web on eight long black spider legs, her human torso emerging from the thorax like some twisted parody of a centaur. She had long black hair to match her glossy carapace and skin white as the web she spun, though no one would have called her beautiful, not with that madness lurking in her beady, blank black eyes.

She wrapped her arms around Damian’s shoulders the way Talia had while presenting him to his father. Her nails traced his jaw and Damian shouted protests into his gag.

“You know,” she said, in a voice that sent shivers down Tim’s spine. “My largest children make meals of little birds when they can. I wonder what this one will taste like? Heavy on the hubris, to be sure, but oh so young and tender…”

“Let him go, Arachne.” Tim swallowed his fear and lifted his bo, ready to attack or defend as needed. “I’m the one you want, the son of Athena. He’s of no use to you.”

“On the contrary. This little one’s been _very_ useful…as bait.”

Damian snarled, but it was clear he’d had the web layered and replaced at least twice to keep him utterly silent. Arachne patted his cheek, only to slash at the web with her claws and suddenly drop to the platform, sliding down the falling web to break her fall.

Tim lurched back, but she was already upon him, rising to her full height and looming a full three feet over his head.

“Timothy, was it?” Her lips twisted into a smirk. “You fancy yourself a weaver.”

Tim gulped. Out of all his talents and training, of course she would zero in on that. “It’s a hobby.”

“More than that, I hear.” Arachne’s lips stretched wide, a mad smile that spread wider than should have been possible, showing off far, far too many sharp teeth. “I hear everything, through my children. And _I_ hear that you craft the finest death shrouds Camp Half-blood has ever seen. That it’s considered an _honor_ to be gifted one of your works. That your talents might one day eclipse even the gods.”

Tim’s ears burned in a way that had nothing to do with the brazier. Yes, he had some very enthusiastic friends (and siblings, and divine half-siblings, and also Alfred and their father in his own way) who would sing his praises to anyone who listened, but he wasn’t _that_ good. And even if he was he doubted anyone would paint that kind of target on his back.

“No mortal can outshine the gods,” he muttered, shifting beneath her appraising gaze.

“I did.”

“You tied.”

“ ** _Lies!_** ”

Arachne’s bellow, sudden and strong, echoed through the chamber. It sent Tim off-balance, which gave Arachne the chance to drag him in by the tunic, her sharp nails raking at the cloth over Kevlar. Her breath smelled of blood.

“Athena was _jealous_ of my talents! She couldn’t _bear_ the idea that a mere mortal, a pure _human_ , could be her better! She _destroyed_ my work rather than acknowledge me for what I am: the finest weaver that has ever or will ever live!”

Tim’s mind raced through pulse-points and counter-moves, searching for a moment to strike before she could gut him. But instead of attacking, Arachne hauled him across the suspended web to the far wall, where she tore aside the curtained thread to reveal a full-sized loom, taller than Tim by a good foot and already strung with gossamer-fine thread.

She tossed Tim down before it, pausing only long enough to wrench the bo from his grip. “Face your better, hero. You will taste defeat before you die.”

The proclamation was so far from what Tim had expected that it took him a moment to process it. By the time he did, Arachne had scuttled to the opposite wall, revealed a second loom, and now approached the brazier with a small woven bag in hand.

Despite the heart pounding his throat, Tim found his voice. “On one condition.”

Arachne paused, black eyes narrowed at him over the flame.

“If I win, you have to let me and my brother go. Unharmed.”

Tim didn’t miss the way that Damian jerked in his bonds, nor the smirk that crawled across Arachne’s face. It was a smirk that bore no intention of keeping promises. Ever.

“You have a deal,” she said sweetly.

Tim clenched his fists. “Swear to it. Swear on the River Styx that you’ll let us go unharmed.”

“Child,” Arachne hissed, her smirk falling to a displeased scowl. “You are in no position to be making demands.”

With that, she dumped the contents of her pouch – some kind of glimmering dust – into the fire, which burst and crackled and began to spew black smoke. Damian bellowed protests against his gag and started coughing. For a terrible moment, Tim was afraid he would choke. Then Arachne’s voice cut through.

“Sing, o muse, and deliver unto me the judge impartial, so that our contest may prove true before even the gods!”

The fire cracked like thunder and sounded a single beautiful note in an unearthly voice. The smoke suddenly, impossibly, changed direction, rising only a few feet before billowing _down_ to surround the brazier and gush across the platform. Within its cloud appeared a door, which cracked open to reveal the bleak darkness and bitter chill of the Underworld. And out of that darkness stepped…

A man.

Not a monster or spirit or even one of the Eumenides like Tim had half-expected. No, it was simply a middle-aged man with a long beard and wild hair who stepped out, cool as can be, and adjusted his cufflinks as though he were magically summoned by spider-women all the time.

Tim blinked. “Um, who…?”

“William Morris,” said the man, casting Tim a sidelong glance that reminded him of Alfred dealing with reporters. “Formerly of London. Late of the Pavilion of Judgement, the Underworld.”

“Oh!” A few scattered memories of textbooks and research filled in Tim’s blanks. William Morris, when alive, had been a 19th century socialist, a proto-fantasy author and – most importantly here – a renowned textile artist. “It’s, ah. It’s an honor, sir.”

Awkward as it felt in his Robin gear, Tim offered the gentleman a slight bow, which earned him a nod of approval from the judge. Arachne sniffed.

“You are here to judge our contest, mortal.”

Morris extended a hand to her, palm up. “And for that, I’m sure you have payment.”

Arachne dropped a handful of silver drachma into his palm. Morris took a moment to count them out, then pocketed them with a nod.

“To your looms, then. The challenge is tapestry, one-on-one, no interference or assistance allowed. May the finest craftsman win.”

The words carried a supernatural weight, as suited a Judge of the Underworld. Tim turned from him to face the unfamiliar loom, picked up the shuttle…and froze. The blank white threats of potential stared back at him without offering a single clue of what to do next.

This was insane. He couldn’t beat Arachne. She was the patron of weavers, the greatest craftsman of her age, and she’d had centuries to perfect her craft. And Tim? He was nothing but a fourteen-year-old boy with a bit of talent and a few years cutting his teeth on personal gifts and shrouds to be burned.

This was no true contest. Arachne only wanted to stroke her own ego. But…But if he could use that, if he could only buy time…

He took a deep, steadying breath and knelt to open the box that sat beside his loom. Inside was over a dozen spindles of gossamer-fine thread, covering the full spectrum of color.

“Mother,” he whispered, selecting his first shade. “Grant me strength and steady my hand. For the sake of my father’s son.”

Hearing Arachne already at work behind him, he straightened and began to weave.

The silk proved finer and lighter than any he’d used before, forcing him (after a few false starts) to discard Robin’s gloves and work bare-handed. At any other time, in any other place, a full tapestry made with material this refined would take weeks if not months or years. But this was no normal place, at no normal time, and neither Tim nor Arachne was fully human anymore.

Still, it took hours by his internal clock to form the first few feet. He wasn’t consciously aware of what he’d made, too focused on the individual rows of his weft until he looked up and suddenly Jason was smiling down at him. Jason _smiling_ , like he hadn’t since Ethiopia, unburdened and at peace. He had one arm slung over Dick’s shoulder, and Dick was smiling too, leaning into the touch as though his brother’s arm were the only burden he’d ever had to shoulder. His eye shown a brilliant Nightwing blue and his face crinkled with laughter.

Tim’s mouth went dry. Their brothers _must_ still be looking for them, they wouldn’t have given up, no matter what magic Arachne was using to speed up time or keep them at bay. They’d come, and they’d see this, and then maybe…

From behind him came a low, cruel chuckle. Tim risked a glance over his shoulder in time to see Arachne putting the finishing touches on the first panel of her creation. It showed a gray-eyed girl screaming as spiders flooded her mouth, devouring her from the inside out.

Tim snapped back to his work, though he could already feel the thin thread rubbing his fingers raw. Whenever his spirted started to flag, he glanced up again to see Dick and Jay, and to draw a bit more strength from that beautiful dream.

In time – he wasn’t sure how long anymore – two more faces appeared: Cassandra and their father, the former perched on the arm of a chair where the latter sat. Cass wore a beautiful dress in the bright, vibrant jewel tones she loved but never wore in public for fear of being unable to escape into the shadows. She only dressed like that at home, among family, and that was when she seemed happiest. And Dad…Dad _beamed_ , his handsome face warm with pride and utterly free of his burdens, from the darkness of Batman and the tragedies that had shaped his life. He held Cassandra’s hand and smiled, the way he only did when his children were all safe and he believed no one was looking.

Next came Alfred, sitting across from Bruce and in front of Jason, who rested his free hand on the old gentleman’s shoulder. Tim was just putting the finishing touches on Alfred’s suit when sharp pain lanced across his palm.

The skin there, dry and blistered from the constant friction, had split open. Blood pooled in the lines of his palm and clung to his most recent strand like garnet beads. Ruined.

Tim cursed in Ancient Greek and stepped back to fetch some water, only to stop dead when Judge Morris called out, “Competitors may not leave their positions until the contest is complete. Violation of this rule will result in a forfeit.”

Arachne smirked at Tim, already half-finished with her sixth panel, which showed a boy no older than ten being garroted with spider web. He could see the full shape of her plans now: eight panels depicting the violent deaths of gray-eyed heroes, Athena’s children, at the hands of Arachne and her spawn. She’d arranged them in a web shape, around the open space for a central, ninth panel, which currently remained untouched.

Tim grit his teeth but returned to his position, using a chemically-soaked wet nap from his belt to clean his hands. It burned, but if he closed his eyes he could imagine that it was Alfred tending his wounds, coaxing him through the sting of peroxide as Cass and Dad sat by in silent, steady support.

They’d be coming home soon, Dad within the week and Cass in time for Christmas. Tim and Damian had to be waiting for them when they got back, which meant he had to see this trial through to the end.

He sank to his knees, throwing every drop of his remaining creative energy into the final third. One last face joined the collection: Damian, seated on the floor by his father’s feet with Titus the rescue hound. He smiled like all the rest but, unlike the others, it was a smile that Tim had never seen, constructed entirely from his own imagination. This was Damian as he could have been, _should_ have been, if only Bruce Wayne had been allowed to raise him from the start. He wasn’t his mother’s weapon or his grandfather’s twisted heir. He was only a boy, a ten-year-old boy, embracing his beloved pet and surrounded his entire life by loving family.

A familiar gaze bore into Tim’s skull as he added the final details, but he pretended not to notice.

By the time he tied off the final thread, his hands were dripping blood. His every muscle ached, from his limbs to his brain, and he wasn’t ready to stand on his own again. It was only to be expected; he had, after all, just crammed a month’s labor into a few mythical hours. He’d be feeling it for weeks, assuming he got out of this alive.

He turned, but remained kneeling as Judge Morris called the contest to an end. Across the way, Arachne lifted her loom from the wall and brought it to the center platform, preening as she presented her latest creation.

Amid the murder of Athena’s children, she had filled the central panel with a portrait of herself as seen from above, black legs providing the boarder frames for her scenes. A cheated perspective showed her human torso in full, her smile as serene as the Madonna. But, instead of a child, she lovely cradled the severed head of a pale-skinned, dark-haired boy, his eyes gouged out and left as bloody sockets.

It wasn’t the sight of his impending murder that made Tim’s heart sink. No, it was the fact, despite the unmitigated horror of it all, the tapestry was still one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.

William Morris seemed to agree, as he leaned in for a closer inspection and began muttering about “technical acumen” and “unrivaled skill.” Tim winced with each word, knowing that his work could never compare; it was only one panel, its ends were too loose and too frayed, he’d misaligned dozens of picks in his rush, and the lower third was stained with blood streaks.

And yet…

…

Gods. He couldn’t stop staring.

That portrait of his family as they could be, as they _should_ be, happy and together…it was the single most beautiful thing he’d ever created.

He forced his eyes away despite the almost physical pain and looked up, searching the distant webs for Damian. The boy was staring right at him, still thoroughly bound, and Tim couldn’t read his expression between the webs, mask and distance. But when he saw Tim looking, Damian shifted, and Tim caught a glimpse of polished steel.

His heart surged back to life. Damian hadn’t been idly this whole time. He’d gotten on of his hands to the knife at his belt, and if he could just get that arm free…

Footsteps on the wood interrupted Tim’s thoughts, followed by a slight bounce in the web beneath him. William Morris had approached, leaving Arachne on the platform to bask in her presumed victory. The judge of the Underworld paused beside Tim, studied his tapestry intently, and didn’t say anything for a long time.

“Young man,” he sighed at last. “I can see that you love your family very much.”

He offered Tim a hand up. Tim took it and rose to his feet, but the clasp didn’t end once he had his balance. Instead, William Morris lifted his hand further, over their heads, and declared in a loud voice: “The victor!”

**_“WHAT?!”_ **

Arachne’s shuttle snapped between her hands, her voice a high shriek and her eyes blazing with fire. Morris turned to her coolly, taking the half-step he needed to place himself between her and Tim.

“All these centuries, Arachne, and still you fail to understand that pride alone produces poor art. Yes, your technique is unparalleled, even flawless, but to what end? Your own exaltation?” He shook his head. “No contest. The boy’s passion and love outshone your own by several orders of magnitude, and that is what has earned him this victory.”

Arachne shrieked, charging Morris and impaling him on the broken edge of her shuttle. The judge crumpled around it, falling to dust like a monster, but his few moments of distraction gave Tim the time he needed.

He flung a Bat-a-rang as high as he could, slicing through the threads that bound Damian’s arm. The boy yanked out his knife and began hacking at his prison. Arachne, snarling, rounded on Tim.

Tim stumbled back and seized his loom from the wall. His family smile back at him from the frame, happier than they’d been in years. It was what they deserved, what he’d always wanted for them, and he knew in his heart that he would never be able to capture this likeness again, not even if he worked for a thousand years.

But then Arachne was upon him, and Damian’s furious cry struck his ears, and Tim knew that no art could ever replace the real thing.

He ducked around Arachne’s grasping claws, kicked off her carapace first, then the wall, and launched himself high over her head. With all his exhausted demigod strength, he brought the loom down upon her human torso, shattering the wood and wrapping the tapestry around her like a net.

Blind and muffled, Arachne shrieked again with wordless rage. Tim flipped over her, landing briefly on her exoskeleton and twisting to slash at her back with his celestial bronze dagger – the one potentially lethal weapon that Robin carried for exactly this sort of emergency. Then he leapt again, sliding across the wooden platform and into the brazier, which scattered its contents across the wood. It seared one of his arms, but he hardly paid it mind as he opened them both wide.

“Damian!” he called, “Come on!”

With a final curse, Damian cut the last of his bonds and dropped into Tim’s arms. His landing burst Tim’s remaining blisters and almost sent them both to crashing down, but at the last second Tim managed to turn it into a move to slow Damian’s fall before dropping him onto his feet.

“We’re going.”

Damian snarled, brandishing his knife. “Not until the beast is dead!”

“Dami, that is not some ordinary monster. We can’t fight her alone, now come–”

A weight dropped onto his shoulder. Tim choked on a scream.

It was a spider, of course. A full-grown Brazilian Wandering Spider, the first of hundreds who were appearing from the web to answer their “mother’s” call.

Damian brandished his sword at it like a wand, barking a word in the League’s ancient tongue that made it burst into green flame. Tim swiped the dying creature off with a twist of his cape, sending into Arachne’s creation, which started to burn the moment it was struck.

That image flicked a switch in Tim’s mind, which muffled the tearing sound of Arachne rending her way through his greatest creation. He whirled on Damian. “ _Do it again_.”

“What?”

“The web, Damian. Burn it!”

Behind them, Arachne tore herself free at last and flung the remains of the loom at the boys like knives. Tim spun Damian out of the way, fumbling between his knife and his grapple gun while the poisonous spiders began to rain around them.

A second before Arachne reached them, Damian planted his feet and called out a line of words that made his eyes blaze Lazarus green.

The magic burst from him, a great shockwave with the boy at its heart that sent the spiders flying and Tim and Arachne staggering back. Where the wave hit web, the web burned, and where the wave hit spiders, the spiders burst into flames.

Green fire lanced up the silk, roasting the remaining spiders where they hid and sending the platform lurching beneath them. Arachne, realizing what had happened, screamed, “No!”

Tim flung his knife at her, embedding it between her human ribs and buying them the split second he needed to return to Damian’s side. He grabbed the smaller boy around the waist, aimed his grapple gun at the unseen roof, and fired.

It caught, but only long enough to lift them both out of Arachne’s grasp as she, the platform, and her entire Gotham lair crumbled into the water below. Then the chamber came down and the boys fell with it, plunging into the unknown depths.

 

* * *

 

 

The next thing Tim knew was hands, large ones, dragging him up out of the water and onto the wet, worn wood of an old pier.

“I’ve got him! Fuck, is he breathing?”

Tim barely registered the voice as Jason before the words reminded him to do just that, water spewing from his mouth and nose. He rolled onto his elbows and knees, vomiting up great lung-fulls of the oily-salty-disgusting Gotham Bay.

His mask was full of murky water, so he felt rather than saw Jason kneeling at his side, interspersing hard thumps on the back with soothing strokes along Tim’s spine.

“There yeh go, Baby Bird. Get it all out.”

A series of splashes came from his other side, followed by Damian’s shrill, “I am _unharmed_ , Nightwing, now release me–” before Dick’s hiccupping, delighted half-sobs cut him off.

“We’ve got them, Oracle. They’re all right, they’re both all right, thank the gods.”

Tim fumbled with his mask, finally dumping out the water. The first thing he took in was the weak gray-orange-pink light that heralded a Gotham sunrise, which meant he’d been underground for over eight hours, and Damian for more than twelve. Secondly, searched the wood and water around him, but found no sign of spiders, not even a severed leg or shred of silk. There was only the dock, the lapping bay, and his brothers.

_His brothers._

Damian looked worse for wear, half-slumped in Nightwing’s grasp like his limbs had stopped working. Tim vaguely recalled that his weird magic had a tendency to “burn him out” if he used too much too fast; but besides that the boy seemed unharmed. For his part, Dick seemed content to cradle their youngest against him, keeping him up-right and supported despite Damian’s protests. Nightwing also had his mask lenses flipped up, and his eyes were red in a way that had nothing to do with Aphrodite’s gifts.

Jason, meanwhile, remained at Tim’s side, now rubbing circles into his back as he coaxed the last drops of bay water out of his system. They were all here, all together, all alive and safe, and that relief hit Tim like a ton of bricks. His adrenaline ran dry, and suddenly he could felt every inch of his aching bones and screaming, broken skin.

Dick seemed to notice first, reaching for Tim even as he refused to release Damian from his hold. “Gods, Tim, you look like hell. And your hands…”

“I think I’m going to faint,” Tim muttered, and those were the only words he managed before doing just that, slumping sideways into Jason’s arms and into a well-deserved rest.

 

* * *

 

 

Their father returned home that weekend and was none too pleased to hear what had gone down in his absence, though any punishments were set aside for the moment in favor of babying Tim through his recovery. Damian had bounced back after a day’s rest and few meals augmented by ambrosia, but Tim was still weak from exhaustion and the bandages weren’t be removed from his hands for another ten days.

Normally, being benched for so long would annoy Tim, leave him restless; but he also couldn’t remember the last time he’d held so much of his father’s attention. Bruce came by at least once a day to sit by Tim’s bed, change his bandages, and just…talk. First about Arachne, and then about life. It was nice, as were the equally common visits from Dick and Jason, plus the concerned video calls with Cass and his friends.

The one person he didn’t see often was Damian, but that changed around three days after Batman’s return. Tim had been reading in his bed, mindful of his aching hands, when three soft knocks on the door heralded his younger brother’s arrival. Once he was given permission, Damian slipped inside, nudged the door closed behind him and, without a word, crossed to sit on Tim’s bed, keeping his hands behind his back the entire time.

Despite everything, Tim’s stomach gnawed with anxiety as he set the book aside. “Yes, Damian?”

The boy cleared his throat, looking at everything except Tim’s eyes. “I, ah. I am here to apologize. Formally. To you.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, but kept his mouth shut. The last thing he wanted to do was scare Damian off before he knew where this was going.

“I am…sorry. For mocking your misgivings about arachnids. I see now that you were only being cautious in the face of a relentless enemy. And also, for what happened to your tapestry, from the contest.” Damian gulped and finally lifted his gaze to meet Tim’s, looking shier than Tim had ever seen him. “I am sorry that it had to be destroyed to rescue me.”

For a moment, Tim closed his eyes against a distant, fading pang of loss. Then he sighed. “It’s all right. It was only a thing. You’re more important.”

Damian scrunched up his face like he wanted to disagree. “For whatever it is worth, as the only living person to have seen it, I can say with certainty that it was no true masterpiece. It was irrevocably flawed from the beginning.”

Tim didn’t groan, but it was a near thing. _That_ was the Damian he knew. Which is why it came as such a surprise when the boy twisted his face further and leaned forward to command Tim’s full attention.

“You put all that work into a portrait of our family, only to leave _yourself_ out of the equation.” Damian scowled up at him, not with disgust but with – of all things – confusion. “I don’t know how you’d imagine that to be a complete picture, but it is clearly not.”

Tim blinked, looked back through his own memories, and realized that Damian…was right.

Much as he hated to admit it, the tapestry had been a glimpse into a world that only existed in his mind: a world where he never came into his family’s life and Damian had taken his place. It was a world where Damian grew up loved, where careless words never sent Jason on the path to Ethiopia, where Dick and Cass never had to worry themselves with Tim’s safety, and where their father had never cried at his bedside.

It wasn’t a world that Tim wanted to exist, not really, but it haunted him from the depths of his own fatal flaw. He’d never even noticed it slipping into his art. Perhaps he never would have, without someone to point it out.

Damian continued to peer at him, as though reading Tim’s thoughts on the back of his eyes. Then he smirked. For once, it didn’t make Tim feel like he was being mocked.

“You see? It was no great loss. Now then…”

He shifted into a cross-legged position and finally revealed the object he’d been hiding behind his back. It was a hand-held loom, already strung with its warp, not unlike the tiny thing Tim had started out making tea-towels and potholders with.

This, Damian placed in his lap as he looked up at Tim expectantly. “Teach me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Never.” Damian actually looked offended, but it soon crumbled away. “Mother always said to learn from the best. By divine reckoning, that would be you.”

Tim laughed, not because it was funny, but because it made something inside of him bubble up with delight. He leaned over to a bedside drawer, pulled out handful of his leftover materials, and laid them out on the bedspread between them. “All right, demon. Pick your poison, and let’s see what you’ve got.”


End file.
